The Feast of Saint Valentine
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mimi and Angel throw a Valentine's Day party, but Mimi and Roger are having relationship issues. Ch. 4: Collins tells Roger off, the day is saved. originally for speedrent, but extended
1. He Asked You to

**Title: **The Feast of Saint Valentine**  
Author:** London  
**Feedback: **is nice**  
Pairing:** All the pairings in the film/play**  
Word Count: **3762**  
Rating:** R to be safe, but it's just for swearing**  
Genre:** General/Romance/A tiny dab of angst, but only a dab**  
Summary:** Angel and Mimi orchestrate a party in honor of Valentine's Day, but Mimi and Roger are reaching a rocky point, and to make matters worse, Roger doesn't believe in Valentine's Day.**  
Notes: **This is set during RENT, BEFORE Valentine's Day, about a week before, in order to circumnavigate the fights. I'm sorry, I'm just so happy. Also, I hope everyone understands the Spanish and Yiddish. I tried to keep it pretty basic, but just in case there's a little list at the bottom of the words I used. And, once more, this is a winter story, but, well, suffice to say it's over 75 degrees out today.**  
Special Thanks: **St Valentine**  
Spoilers:** There's one in the Yiddish section for the film of RENT**  
Warnings:** Swearing, mentions of drug addiction, people drinking alcohol**  
Disclaimer:** Jonathan Larson is the god of the RENTverse. He owns all.

For weeks, the girls had planned. It had been a sporadic thing, words exchanged in their brief moments alone together, making them feel like children playing at a fantasy too private, too humiliating for its privacy, to be shared. Nothing firm was decided until, at the start of the month, Angel called Maureen and Mark and invited them and their respective comrades to a little pre-Valentine's party. Then all the scrimped and saved bills were wadded together, the shopping undertaken, the pre-chosen recipes looked over again, until all that remained was the cooking.

Mimi and Angel stood together in the kitchen, mired in the oven's warmth while outside the February snow nipped at ears and noses. "You know they call it Singles' Awareness Day?" Angel asked, adding her breath to the heat of the room.

Mimi gasped. "No," she replied. "Who?"

"Singles, of course! I guess people who don't want relationships, or don't need it rubbed in their noses that they don't have them. So they go around saying 'Happy SAD!'" Angel pulled oven mittens onto her hands, opened the oven and peeped inside. "Fifteen more minutes," she decreed.

Mimi leaned against the counter in Angel and Collins' small kitchen and inhaled deeply. "Mm, this reminds me of my mother. Some of the smells are different, but…" She trailed off, unable to describe exactly her half-remembrance.

Angel stripped off one mitten and used her protected hand to lift the lid of their soup pot. "Cόmo?" she asked.

Indulging curiosity and memory, Mimi explained, "Cuando mi Mamí era cocinando, yo conocé nada pero _Tango hambre!_. Y mas, la sopa de tortilla era muy popular con mi y mis hermanos cuando estuvimos niños, y Mamí la hago muy caliente. Y, cuando yo era 13, 14, y cuando regresé al casa, había aromas deliciosas…"

"Donde estabas antes de eso?" Angel asked.

"No sé," Mimi admitted.

Satisfied that all was going well, Angel set both mittens on the counter, faced Mimi and said, "Cuando mi mamá cocinó, yo era con ella, cortando vegetales… muchos cebollas," she added, then pulled a face. "Honestly, I could've done with less. So, and I only as this because I'm worried about you, how are things with Roger?"

Mimi took a deep breath. "I think I need alcohol for this one."

Angel gave a knowing, disapproving sigh and offered an open bottle half-full of red wine. "You know, if it's that bad--"

"It's not that bad," Mimi interrupted. "But, you know, he's protective. He wants me to find a new job; he's always bringing up school. Just last week I found a class listing in his apartment--the pages with correspondence courses were earmarked."

"Did you confront him about it?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Mimi shrugged. "Same old, same old. I told him I couldn't get by on waitressing, especially not with class fees. He said get a fee waiver, move in with him--"

Angel's jaw dropped. "He asked you to move in with him?"

"It wasn't romantic," Mimi assured her. "We… might have raised our voices. Anyway, it wasn't pretty. Finally he said that he knew it wasn't just the class fees, because if I was doing fine off my Cat Scratch pay then why are things disappearing from my apartment?"

"Well, why are they?" Angel asked.

Mimi crossed her arms. "I'm trying to cut back," she said defensively. "It's hard. You've never been there."

Angel took a hit off the wine bottle, trying to ignore the taste of the stuff. Momentarily she weighed the risk of Mimi taking offense against the undeniable knowledge that it was the right thing to say. "Mimi, chica, you know I love you… maybe Roger's right. I know it's all too easy to say," she added hurriedly, "but maybe… well, baby steps. If you got off the drugs this year, next year the two of you can talk about school."

The way Angel said the words, next year, so casually, Mimi almost believed the concept sure. She almost believed Angel was truly checking the oven again, not hiding a pained face. She felt the stirrings within her of a constant memory, something done again and again as a tradition, as this might become a tradition.

Mimi took a quick swig of wine. With this group, there could be no traditions. There were no 'last-year's. There was only one today after another, and that was what needed to be.

TO BE CONTINUED

It's already finished, really. This was for speedrent, but I like it more in short chapters.

The Spanish means, essentially:

"How?"

"When my mom was cooking, all I knew was that I was hungry. Also, when my siblings and I were little we all really liked tortilla soup, which Mom made really spicy. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I'd come back to the house and there were tasty smells."

"Where were you before?"

"I don't know."

"When my mother cooked, I was with her, cutting vegetables. A lot of onions."


	2. Even if I Have to

disclaimer: Jonathan Larson is the RENTverse god. I'm just borrowing.

Snow drifted to the ground, taunting. The pileup of precipitation that had yet to occur was a certain thing, though businessmen prayed that their engines would turn over and Mark cast dubious glances at the sky, worried about Roger's health and the cold night ahead. _Please, please,_ they prayed as one, _not too much snow; only a pleasant snow, a few inches on the ground, no more. Please let this remain a romantic winter of the Los Angeles storybooks. Mercy._

"Maybe I shouldn't go."

Mark begged, "Oy Gotenyu," as he grabbed Roger's sleeve for the seventh time since leaving the building. "Come on, Rog, I promised Angel--"

Chewing his lip nervously, Roger interrupted, "I know, I know… maybe you should go. I'll go home."

"Roger, no, come on--" But Roger shook his head fervently. Mark sighed. "Is this about your thing with Mimi last week?"

"Yes!" Roger burst, glad Mark had finally cottoned on. "Mimi is Angel's friend. She'll be there. And I always say the wrong thing at parties, you know that if I talk to anyone I fuck everything up."

"Collins is _your_ friend," Mark observed. "And I think everyone is prepared for what comes out of your mouth."

"It'll be awkward. I don't want to do that to everyone, make things awkward."

Mark couldn't help but laugh at this. "You know Maureen and Joanne are going to be there, too?" he asked. "I'm going to a party at which my ex-girlfriend and her lesbian lover will be in attendance. It's going to be awkward if either of us shows. It'll be fun. Come on."

Reluctant, Roger began biting the edge of his thumbnail. "Maybe you could tell them I'm not feeling well," he muttered.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Yes, that'll make it better--sorry, my HIV-positive best friend is ill, so I thought I'd leave him alone in our crummy, freezing loft and celebrate with you lot. Would you do this for me?"

"You won't need me at a party," Roger said.

"Sure I will," Mark replied. "Come on, Rog. You're my friend. I like being around you. So… because it would be a nice thing to do?" When Roger continued to chew his lip, though he inched towards his friend, Mark delivered an ultimatum: "Roger, you're coming even if I have to schlep you there piggyback style."

For a moment Roger held Mark's gaze angrily. _I'm not going,_ he thought. _Mark can't make me. It's not fair. _Mark knew he was winning when Roger's cheeks spasmed like a fish's gills, inflating, then deflating as Roger swallowed his laughter. At last he lost control and giggled at the thought of Mark carrying him, piggyback style, to Collins and Angel's apartment. "All right," he said, "I'll try."

"Just be yourself, and everything will be fine," Mark soothed.

"Thanks, Mom."

TO BE CONTINUED!

Oy Gotenyu-- essentially, "God help us." It's more an expression for a hopeless but harmless situation than anything else

Schlep-- okay, this can either mean working, as in running errands ("… and I was schlepping around all over the valley, with the old car with the broken a/c…") or it can mean carry ("Mom made me schlep all the groceries in from the car.")


	3. Mark Used Smack?

Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own anything you recognize.

Mimi knew she had already imbibed more than was wise when she heard tumbling from her lips the words, "I'd do it if I could, you know."

Angel, who had been carefully slicing tortillas, asked, "Do what?"

Mimi took another hit from the bottle. "I would give up heroin," she explained. Suddenly the concept seemed almost plausible. "But I can't. Do you know what rehab costs?" she asked, her tone suggesting that she knew the number and it was no small one.

The opportunity, clarified, halted Angel. She preached the value of opportunity, of taking every opportunity, but Mimi was becoming drunk. Influencing a drunk simply felt wrong, even if she was influenced for the better. But Angel knew she was dying. She hadn't much time; she could feel as much, the sickness winning her body as a prize. Going peacefully to death seemed much simpler without considering those left behind.

"Maybe you could do it at home," Angel suggested. "It won't be easy, but if you have Mark and Roger to look after you--"

A deep voice interrupted, "No."

The girls turned their heads. Collins stood by the bedroom door, fixing the collar of his shirt. "I thought you were asleep," Angel said, frowning slightly.

Collins shrugged. "Woke up, I guess," he answered. Then, on their previous topic, "Don't do it, Mimi. Roger tried. He almost died. So did Mark."

Angel's frown deepened, wrinkling her forehead. "Mark used smack?" she asked.

"No. Roger almost killed him. I've seen that done, Mimi, so I know--you can't do that. It's too dangerous." When Mimi nodded and reached again for the bottle, Collins grabbed the wine. "Uh, maybe you should have some coffee and a shower. Sober up a little."

"I'm fine," Mimi lied, and knew she was lying.

Within minutes she had capitulated, leaving Angel and Collins alone in the kitchen. "Is she okay?" he asked, indicating Mimi.

Angel shrugged. "She seems to think she is, but…" Her eyes widened with concern, and although Mimi couldn't possibly hear them over the noise of the shower, she lowered her voice. "I've never seen Mimi drink like that. I think maybe there's more between her and Roger than she's letting on."

Collins knew he was selfish even to think it, but as he wrapped his arms around Angel he whispered, "I'm so glad you found me." Even with that hug, he had an ulterior motive. He needed Angel. Without her, where was the purpose? Everyone knew she made him happy, that his students found their grades higher and his criticisms softer. Now Collins smiled all the time; he caught himself grinning and laughed to have grinned without thinking to. If his best friend and her best friend allowed their small, horrible fights to escalate, could Collins and Angel be separated?

He could not allow that to happen.

Angel continued slicing tortillas, since Collins had caught her from behind, but she responded to his hug, affirming her affection by swaying her hips slightly, like a sapling in a spring breeze. For a long moment, a single moment dragged, unchanging, into eternity, Angel and Collins were happy and nothing else mattered.

Someone knocked at the door. Unwilling to disentangle herself from Collins, Angel called, "It's open!"

Maureen entered first, as was her wont, followed by Joanne with a bright pink box, Mark grinning from ear to ear, and Roger with his shoulders hunched and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Immediately the room exploded into noise and greeting, the earlier quiet shattered. "Look what the cat dragged in!" Maureen cried. Then, looking around, "It's so hot in here…" She stripped off her coat, her sweater and began to lift her shirt, then turned to Joanne.

Joanne shrugged. "I don't care," she said. "There's no one here for you to flirt with." With a half-smirking smile, Maureen stripped down to her undershirt, making her breasts painfully apparent.

"Hey!" Mark protested Joanne's comment.

Roger lifted one hand and pointed at Mark. "Cat," he said. Then, pointing at himself, "Drag." He stuffed his gloves into his pocket and began unwinding his scarf.

"So, Roger said Mimi was already here," Joanne said, asking without a question mark.

"She's in the shower," Angel explained. At that moment came a squeak as Mimi shut off the water. "She'll be out shortly," Angel added. "Until then everybody sit, chat, drink."

"I'll go for the last," Roger replied. Angel and Collins shared a look; something was definitely not right between him and Mimi.

As Joanne handed the pink box over to Angel and Maureen distracted herself trying to discover how the drapes Angel had concocted hung _just so_, Collins made his way over to the boys just in time to hear Mark warn Roger, "Just take it slow, okay?"

"I know my limits," Roger replied.

"Sometimes you ignore them," Mark reminded him.

"By choice," Roger insisted.

"Feeling blue?" Collins asked. Mark immediately conveyed his relief. Collins could handle anything concerning Roger.

Roger shot him a sudden glance, a mixture of surprise and alarm. "No," he said defensively, "I'm just looking for some fun."

Did Roger never learn? He had used the same lines with track marks on his arms, and they had been no less pathetic then. "Okay, fine, you're unhappy and so you're gonna fuck with your life, we get it. You're still sixteen. But you know, Mimi and Angel worked really hard on this. Maybe you and Mimi can patch things up if you show that you appreciate her?"

In a hiss, Roger demanded, "Why do you assume it's my fault?"

Pointedly ignoring this, Collins asked Mark, "How are things in the loft?"

"We're managing," Mark replied with the sort of smile that meant a sorrowful joy. "Farshadat freylech," he explained, wounded-happy. It was something he had taken to saying years ago, trying to explain in imagined conversations with Mrs. Cohen--as she had become in his mind--exactly why he continued living in the loft, shivering through the winter. _We are happy suffering._ Suffering-glad, like masochists.

Collins nodded. "Glad to hear it."

Suddenly Roger nudged Mark. "Look," he said, giggling, "it's Magneto."

Indeed, Mimi had emerged from the bathroom fully clothed, with a towel tied around her neck like a cape. "Shut up, Roger," she said playfully, joining the three of them. "I don't want to soak this shirt."

"I'm not complaining," Roger assured her. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Before pulling away, he whispered, "I think it's sexy." _Really kinky_, he did not add. Watching this display, Angel wondered if Mimi had forgiven Roger. He hadn't said or done anything…

"Thank God, we can finally eat!" Angel said. She chased everyone to the table, herding the geese, then together with Mimi set out the soup. Using the noise as a cover, Mimi whispered to Angel, "Our issues can wait."

TO BE CONTINUED! And, of course, reviews are always nice...

Farshadat-- wounded, suffering

Freylech-- happy, joyful; a part of the personality

Farshadat-Freylech is something I say, but it's not really a Yiddish phrase. It's just something I use to express something it's tough to say in English.


	4. I hate Valentine's Day

Disclaimer: I don't own anything your recognize.

With their combined funds, Angel and Mimi had managed two courses, the first of which was accompanied by plates of tortillas and shredded cheese. It was Mark who asked, "Why the cheese and tortillas?"

"Did your mother never tell you not to film at the table?" Roger asked through a mouthful of tortilla.

"All the time," Mark replied, "why?"

Roger threw cheese at him. "That's why," he said.

Mark sulked. "Baby," he muttered, cleaning his lens.

"Me, or the camera?"

"Ooh, dinner and a show," Maureen commented.

Joanne rolled her eyes. "You'd think there'd be better comedians."

Collins reminded them, "You can't have dinner and a show without dinner." Bravely, he swallowed a spoonful of soup. Those not busy mocking or cleaning beloved possessions were treated to the sight of Collins' eyes growing far too large for their sockets. "Oh," he croaked, "_that's_ why the cheese and tortillas."

Angel and Mimi collapsed against each other, hiding their faces each on the other's shoulder as they giggled helplessly.

Halfway through the second course, with candles lit more for aesthetics and environment than for function, and the crowding around the small table becoming so familiar that many would lie awake that night and touch the shoulders that ached for contact, the week-early Valentine's Feast felt like a true holiday. Mark found himself praying fervently_ kina-hora, kina-hora._

"This is better than Valentine's Day," Roger decided. "I hate all that."

"Why?" Angel asked, cocking her head to one side. An uncomfortably attentive silence encased the group.

_Roger, you idiot,_ Mark thought angrily. _Mimi and Angel decide to throw a party and you have to go and blunder into it with your hatred of everything! Why can you never be happy? Isn't anything enough?_ Half of him wanted to shriek the words at the top of his lungs. The other half beat down the desire, because Mark was a quiet boy and, more importantly, because Roger had said exactly those things as Mark forced him into the underground station, insisting that no one would mind the strange things Roger said.

"Because holidays are celebrations," Roger explained. "Commemorations, or important days… like you celebrate birthdays because you're celebrating the day a person came into the world. You're saying you're glad they did. Or on Christmas and Hanukkah, those are both miracles, right--right, Mark?"

Mark blushed. He hadn't wanted to get involved. "W-well," he stammered, "the oil did burn for eight nights…"

In the arrogant way only he could manage, Roger took this for agreement. "You see?" he said. "But all you do on Valentine's Day is give someone a card that says you love them. I think it's silly to set aside a day for that."

Angel opened her mouth to speak, closed it and blinked rapidly. Collins and Mimi glared at Roger. _Now look what you've done!_ Painfully aware of this, Mark swooped to his friend's rescue in the only manner he could think of--by changing the subject. Concurrence would be false and offensive, disagreement a betrayal of Roger, so Mark asked, "What exactly is in these pies? They're really delicious." Joanne and Roger piped agreement.

"Oh," Angel said, reformatting her mood to fit the situation, "it's a traditional recipe from Wales."

Mimi nodded. "Apparently this is really popular over there. Pigeon pie!"

"Oh, Maureen's is vegetarian," Angel added quickly. "It's mostly mushrooms. We know you don't eat meat," she assured Maureen.

All around the table, the company struggled to hide their emotions. Joanne's face was a frozen mask of a vague, polite smile. Mark had his camera rolling and a half-chewed bolus pushed to the pocket of his cheek; Maureen looked as though she might be ill. Determined to show loyalty to his last, Collins forced himself to take another bite. He chewed painfully slowly. Roger looked from the others to his plate to Mimi and Angel, and began to grin.

"You absolute bastards!" he cried, smiling hugely. "Did you really feed us _pigeon_? Oh, and we fell for that…"

"We substituted chicken," Angel explained.

Very, very slowly, laughter rippled around the table. Collins laughed so hard he wept and spat a mouthful of pie into a napkin rather than choke on it. Embarrassed, the churning in her stomach not quite settled, Joanne forced a giggle. "You total idiot, you thought you were completely in with them," Mark babbled at Roger, who was laughing too hard to care. Mimi and Angel grinned at the huge success of their plans.

_Kina-hora, kina-hora._

TO BE CONTINUED

Hanukkah-- the Festival of Lights, commemorating the miracle of a menorah blazing for eight night when after a battle only enough oil for one remained. It took eight days to make more oil, so… you get the idea. Today it's celebrated with a menorah (candelabra holding 9 candles), and at sundown (Jewish culture has a new day beginning at sundown rather than sunup) the candles are lit by touching a match or lighter to the shamus (pronounced shah-muss) candle and lighting each other candle off that, one more each day for eight days.

Kina-Hora-- (kine-a hoar-a) to ward off evil, like "knock on wood"

Kvell-- to experience pride, but for someone else's accomplishments, like the look on Collins' and Mark's faces when Roger showed up at support group, or my math tutor when I get a problem right (it's rare).


	5. You Could've Been Nicer

Disclaimer: I don't own... sadly...

That night, after the consumption of the chocolate cake Joanne brought in the pink box and good-byes on the part of herself and Maureen, while Mark suited his camera for travel, Collins pulled Roger aside and told him, "Look, I know you're an asshole and you can't help that, but you could've been nicer tonight. You could have tried to appreciate what Angel and Mimi did."

"I do appreciate it," Roger replied, baffled. "What are you talking about?"

"Your I-don't-want-to-celebrate-love act," Collins explained.

Roger protested, "I didn't say that! That isn't what I said or what I meant."

"That's what it sounded like," Collins told him.

"Maybe to you," Roger allowed, "but not…" He glanced over his shoulder at Angel. Momentarily their eyes met, and Angel scowled slightly, beautifully, then turned away. "I didn't mean that!" Roger insisted. "Collins, I didn't."

Collins shrugged. "I don't care," he said. "I'm used to your bullshit. But Angel and Mimi aren't."

Taking his cue, Roger took a deep breath. "Right," he said. "Guess I'll get on this, then." He turned away from Collins and marched himself over to Mimi and Angel. They dropped their conversation in favor of expectant expressions. Mark paused. His shoulders stiffened, nerves on end. Roger could only make this worse. His apologies had a nasty habit of coming as swift explanations, always given in an unwilling tone.

"Look," Roger said, true to form, "I think Valentine's Day is stupid because, Mimi, I'm not going to love you any more in a week than I do today. Because I can't. Because I just love you every day. And I think celebrating love on one day goes against everything you preach, Angel, because every day is a celebration of love." He took a deep breath before continuing, "Anyway, that's why I don't like Valentine's Day. I don't like love being commercialized and having a price tag stuck on. And if you want that gesture, Mimi, fine, you can have it, but I won't love you any more perfectly than I do right now, tonight."

Angel stood in awe. She had never heard more than two grumbled sentences at a time from Roger. The clear, rambling speech surprised her, and she knew she forgave him. Roger was more than Collins' immature jerk of a friend, as she had described him earlier. _If only he let people know that._

A lengthy pause gave Roger the chance to breathe again. When he said no more, Mark cleared his throat. "Rog," he whispered, "you've left out the most important part!" To Mark, this didn't matter. He understood that the fumbling, angrily presented speech was, to Roger, an apology. Mark found himself kvelling uncontrollably, painfully, pride swelling like a balloon in his chest. Farshadat-freylech.

Roger thought for a moment. "Mimi, I love you," he said, taking her hands in his.

Mimi smiled. "I love you, too, Roger," she said, "but those aren't the words Mark meant." When his mouth flapped like a flounder's, she rolled her eyes and told him, "Just stop explaining and apologize."

"Oh! Oh. Angel, I'm sorry. I ruined your dinner. I'm… I'm so sorry. Thank you."

Angel gave her most benevolent smile. "Oh, I forgave you already," she said, and strode over to Collins, who seemed in sore need of some appreciation.

Mimi found herself unable to take her arms away from Roger's. Her skin had burned onto his, and she no longer knew where one ended and the other began. Even before he spoke a word, Mimi knew Roger would invite her up to the loft for the night. She knew she would accept without a word, and it would be her and him, them, nothing but them in the night, in the silence, lying together and not rubbing their shoulders as the skin ached from the fading memory of the night's closeness.

Mark forced himself to smile at the couple. When he swung his camera bag onto his shoulder, his fingers lingered, vainly striving to awaken a memory.

THE END! Reviews are nice... I hope you all enjoyed this!


End file.
